


In The Dark

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canonical Character Death, Catharsis, Coming of Age, Emotionally Repressed, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Illustrated (soon), Love Confessions, M/M, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Stream of Consciousness, Unrequited Love, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-11 23:18:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18434183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: Obi-Wan keeps a vigil over his Master's body, struggling to reconcile the truth of his emotions with the truth of the Code. But without Qui-Gon's unorthodox guidance, he isn't sure how tangled up a man can be before he breaks--and now his Master is never coming back . . . and he will never know what Qui-Gon might have said.Or: “When the pain inside controls,And the suffering takes hold,And the truth that we must knowSeems all just a lie . . ."





	In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, there!
> 
> Here's a thing. :)
> 
> There are references to events in the _Jedi Apprentice_ series by Jude Watson and Dave Wolverton, but apart from a name-drop and the detail of a gift, I don't think it's necessary to be familiar with it. There's also a wee bit of headcanon, in that I think Qui-Gon's funeral should have been held back on Coruscant / at the Temple.
> 
> Anyway, the title and "Or" are from Caleb Hyles' (unofficial) additional verse to ["Don't Forget"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_WzObiHuGgc), the end-credits song from _Deltarune_ (by the one and only Toby Fox):
> 
> “When the pain inside controls,  
> And the suffering takes hold,  
> And the truth that we must know  
> Seems all just a lie . . .  
> There’s a light inside your soul  
> Where the hurt can’t make a home;  
> There we keep this promise in our hearts . . .  
> Don’t forget:  
> I’m with you in the dark.”
> 
> Thoughts, reviews and comments are all welcome. <3 I do hope you enjoy!

The flesh beneath his fingertips is warm, but he knows that if he were to let his hands wander, the rest would be as cold and still as stone. And yet he cannot fathom letting go of his Master’s hand, or slipping the lifeless weight of his head from the crook of his arm . . . Obi-Wan has settled himself on the unforgiving floor, dimly aware of the distant richocet of blaster fire. He does not care. He should. He is a Jedi. He should take his Master’s lightsaber and rush to defend the Queen, give coverage to her entourage who have no real defense—just blasters of their own—

But he cannot.

There is a crick in his neck from where he has laid his cheek against Qui-Gon’s brow, where his tears have run down the bloodless face like rain. The smell of charred flesh still clings to the air, and he need not strain too hard to hear the echoes of their sabers, still—

What he has done haunts him, sickens him, but grief—the sweet, blessed emotion numbs him now, for a moment, to all of it.

Within the inner breast pocket of his tunic rests a stone—small and dark, Qui-Gon’s gift to him upon his thirteenth birthday—and Force-given warmth whispers to him, faintly, not only of light—but of his Master—

_“Let the emotions flow through you. Greet them as you would a friend, and then release them back into the Force. Do not hesitate to hold them close when a situation warrants it, but always be mindful of them, Padawan, lest they end up blinding you to what is at hand and leading you astray.”_

Words Qui-Gon knew well himself—

Is _this_ what he felt, when Tahl died?

This endless nothingness—like a piece of his very soul has been torn away?

Obi-Wan has known death before, seen its many guises, even been erroneously blamed for the untimely demise of another student at the Temple—but—

This—

“Master,” he chokes out—and because the word is like fire in his throat, he flings through the Force a wordless cry, a wretched plea wrenched loose and twisted at last into some form—

< _Help me, Master. >_

Nothing.

_Silence._

For the first time, truly, in over a decade—silence.

And the teachings and theology instilled into him since he can remember mean absolutely nothing. Perhaps tomorrow they will begin to take on a semblance of truth but now—but now—

They cannot stay—he—

There is a lull in the battle; the blaster fire has stopped. Soon someone will come looking for them—for him. And there is the boy . . . _why_ he was brought along stabs a shred of anger through the young man’s heart . . .

The boy—

_“Promise me you’ll train—”_

The Force—or instinct—he neither knows nor cares—goads him into action. Obi-Wan hooks his Master’s lightsaber to his belt, then carefully gathers the body into his arms. He stumbles, trembling, every muscle crying out in protest and hounded by fatigue. The battle pushed him to the limits of his endurance, and Qui-Gon was a tall and sturdy man; now that the life is gone from him, the shell left behind is nothing but mass—and the literal and figurative weight are more than he can bear.

And yet find the strength he does; with slow and measured steps, Obi-Wan begins to trace his way back through the cycling forcefields and across the latticework of catwalks, letting the Force alone guide him—for his mind has locked itself somewhere distant from his body in its grief, and he can’t even move to wipe the tears which blur his eyes.

* * *

He pauses, briefly, carefully lowering his burden with a gasp, gathering the robes they’d shed when the Sith had met them, toying with them, teasing them with his double blades of crimson, artificial-crystalled light. Reverently Obi-Wan lays both robes over his Master, fashioning a shroud, before the Force whispers _Hurry_ and he can do nothing but coax his weary body to obey.

* * *

The transport thrums about them, a mindless drone; not long ago Obi-Wan had meditated on the sound, searching for the flicker of the living Force even in machinery, as Qui-Gon had suggested. And he had sat with the guilt of the childish feelings welling within him—jealousy and anger—and had thought, had been so sure, that he had properly set them aside.

Not so.

Qui-Gon’s body has been sealed in a stasis field for the journey back to Coruscant; perhaps it is fitting that when Obi-Wan reaches out a shaking hand, only a light tingling resistance meets his fingertips—not flesh—for the man from whom he learned everything he knows is not in what remains. He has, as Yoda would remind him, become transformed into the Force, and now he is present in the very energy that binds all things together—

“. . . Excuse me . . . sir?”

From the doorway comes a voice, uncharacteristically soft, its exuberance muted by a quick and biting strike of reality. Anakin had no doubt seen much as a slave—but death? He is hopelessly naïve in many ways, and it would not surprise Obi-Wan in the slightest if this is his first real brush with another being’s mortality.

The Jedi keeps his head bowed, breathing deeply, again feeling a spike of anger and pain pierce him to the core. He had asked to be left alone. He wants to see no one. The trip to Coruscant will be the last time he can spend with his Master—

What, now, would Qui-Gon ask of him? Expect of him?

And suddenly the memory comes—eight years ago, he thinks it was—when Qui-Gon had sequestered himself with Tahl’s body—had eschewed any hand Obi-Wan outheld—had so closed himself off that even reaching out to him through the Force returned nothing—

_He would not want me to make the same mistake. And the boy . . . I may not be his Master yet—not even a Knight—but my promise . . . Living it starts now._

Slowly he lifts his head. “You don’t need to call me ‘sir’, Anakin.” A small smile—an offering, if forced—and Obi-Wan scoots his chair over to make space in the tiny, austere room. “What brings you here?”

“I miss him.” The boy’s eyes are dark beneath the sharp shadow of his bangs, but his voice is strangely hollow, as if he’s struggling to bury his grief—or at the very least, hide it. But the brave façade does not become him, nor is it becoming of a Jedi. Bravery, yes, but not false bravado.

Obi-Wan frowns a moment, then gets up from his chair, motioning for Anakin to take it. “Close the door. Let’s have some privacy to talk.”

The boy obeys, settling himself uncertainly at the edge of his seat, looking anywhere but at Qui-Gon’s body or the Jedi who now crouches beside him.

“I miss him, too,” Obi-Wan begins slowly, reaching for the Force, hoping that something will guide his speech.

“Is that why you’re hiding here?”

“I’m not _hiding_.” And the words are sharper than he meant; Obi-Wan catches the boy’s eye at last, shaking his head in a silent apology. “It is . . . difficult to lose the ones we love.”

“Leaving Mom . . .” Almost a whisper—

And the façade cracks—Anakin’s voice with it. He wipes hastily at his cheeks, addressing his running nose with the sleeve of his tunic. For a moment Obi-Wan struggles with what to say; yes, Anakin’s mother is left behind, but such is the life of a Jedi—a choice that the boy himself has made. And she is not dead. She is not gone. Whether or not he will see her again is the will of the Force—

But what of this can Obi-Wan know?

His mind again flickers to his Master; what would Qui-Gon say? He would not spin platitudes gleaned from that of which he knows nothing. He would tell the truth.

“I cannot pretend to understand that kind of parting,” he murmurs finally, dropping his gaze from Anakin, letting it fall on his hands, the stone cradled in his palm that he’d nearly forgotten he was holding. “I was taken to the Jedi Temple when I was six months old. I have known no other family, and even the friends I have said goodbye to . . . It cannot, I am sure, compare to leaving one’s mother.”

Gently he places his hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “We—the Jedi—we’re each other’s family . . . not the beings who begot and bore us . . . In time, you will see that this is so . . . but . . . if you ever want to talk about it . . .”

“No.” Anakin shakes his head abruptly, almost violently, the mop of his hair flung wildly across his face. And something, again, is lost between them; again he retreats into himself.

Obi-Wan purses his lips. Of course it will take time for them to trust each other. It was Qui-Gon who found the boy; Qui-Gon with whom he formed a . . . bond . . . an instantaneous connection . . . fostered, no doubt, by Qui-Gon’s unshakable and immediate belief that Anakin was bound for a destiny far too heavy for the shoulders of a child . . .

He sighs, keenly aware that once more his thoughts have strayed from the present.

“If I have overstepped my bounds, I am sorry. Perhaps now is not the time to speak of one’s true family . . .

“We need not bear our grief alone, Anakin. I do not expect us to understand each other; we’ve not known each other long. But you’re under my protection, at the very least until the Council can discuss what’s to be done. Many things have changed.”

The boy nods, silent, unreachable. He makes for a moment as if to reach out and touch Qui-Gon’s hand, but the shimmer of the forcefield stops him. Wordlessly he stands, glancing once more at Obi-Wan, then slips out the door, closing it behind him.

* * *

_< Master.>_

The room seems somehow smaller now that Anakin is gone. It’s cold—not so much because the ship is cold but as an extra precaution; if they run into trouble and power to the stasis field should fail—

Obi-Wan shudders, wrapping himself more tightly in his Master’s robe. Before the techs set up the room he’d quietly folded up his own, placing it beside Qui-Gon . . . No one would know, and there would be no second chance . . . He will speak to no one of his secret—not even to Bant, and she alone was privy to the other secrets of his heart—

The cloth still smells like him: like soil and clean sweat and something else, something Obi-Wan can’t quite put his finger on. Perhaps it is childish, to keep his Master’s robe . . . after all, there is the stone, still warm in his breast pocket—the pocket Bant had sewn with such care, that the stone would always rest against his heart . . . but the stone does not _smell_ like Qui-Gon, does not fill his physical senses with that presence he has come to know so well . . . has, in an agony of conscience, come to love . . .

_< Master.>_

He dares not speak aloud, not now. What he did to the Sith Lord in his rage—the seductive brush of the Dark Side—has burned itself across his mind and despite his best efforts, his body refuses to be quieted. No measured breath, no refuge sought within the Force, can fully still the tremors that pass through him or soothe the turmoil in his gut that leaves acid at his throat, the taste of his last rations against his tongue. He dares not speak, does not trust himself, will not—will not—disgrace himself before his Master.

But what would Qui-Gon have done—what _has_ he done—in such moments when Obi-Wan’s naivete has been shattered by the cruelty in the galaxy? When his eyes, his senses, have been assaulted by horrors no amount of preparation in the pristine Temple could prepare him for? What, then, had Qui-Gon done, but crouch beside his doubled-over Padawan, rubbing his back as he vomited bile and wept, assuring him that there was no shame?

No. He will not speak.

And even if he could trust himself to open his mouth, what words would pour from his lips? What could mean anything at all? What could matter? Nothing. None of it. There are no words.

But there is the Force.

And something else . . .

Shaking fingers fumble at the controls for the stasis field; with a hiss and a hum, the subtle play of light is gone. Scarcely daring to believe it, Obi-Wan at last reaches out a hand—

His Master’s skin is cold and smooth, but it was less than an hour before he’d been put in stasis—he is not yet touched by  _rigor mortis—_

And the young man—who hardly feels himself a Jedi now—settles himself back in the chair, slipping his fingers into the hand that seems to swallow up his own, bowing his head against his Master’s chest. His teeth clench and something sharper than any blade claws at his throat and he wishes, oh he wishes he could weep but there are no tears for him to shed—but still there come low, keening cries that he desperately muffles against his sleeve—

_< Master . . . >_

* * *

_< Master. Can you hear me? Likely not. Everyone says you cannot transcend death—that you become one with the Force and lose your own consciousness—your name—your memories. So I don’t know if you can hear me. (Please. Please. Can you hear me?)_

_< I do not sound like a Jedi now. I do not feel like one. How can I bear this? How can I move forward? You have set before me an impossible task, Master. You were so besotted with that boy that you’d have defied the Council and no doubt been expelled from the Order for training him and I—_

_< I am not ready for the Trials. When you spoke to the Council, you spoke of my flaws and said only that I was ‘capable.’ Master. It is too soon. It has always been, will always have been, too soon. I cannot let you go. I cannot leave your side. But that is what you would have asked of me—no—what you would have _demanded _: pushed me to the Trials when there was so, so much more I had to learn from you,_ wanted _to learn . . ._

_< And now . . . and now . . . you bade me promise . . . how could I say no?_

_< How could I say no and now there is the boy and I . . . what can I do? What if the Council forbids me train him? There is still fear in him. There is still anger. Nothing of his character has changed. What have you set before me? . . . Would you will that I renounce Knighthood as soon as the braid is cut because I alone must keep my promise and this dangerous boy _must _be trained—even if it costs me the Order—and_ my _family?_

_< I know nothing, Master. I am not ready. Please. Don’t ask this of me._

_< And it should be _you _, Master . . . when the braid is cut . . . Even now I can feel your hands as you first taught me how to weave it . . . Would that you knew—how I’ve longed to feel your touch again—_

_< We are encouraged to love (but not like this) and I—_

_< Master—_

_< There are times when I cannot bear it._

_< You have taken some piece of me with you. I can feel it. There is an ache, a hollowness, and not for what will never be, nor because I can no longer hope, but because—just because—you are _gone _—you have gone someplace where I cannot follow—_

_< I should have learned from you and Tahl what love can do. Master, seeing you in love . . . with her . . . I have never felt such jealousy as when you turned to her, again, again, with warmth spilling from your eyes, with a smile, with a touch . . . When your bond with her was stronger than ours ever seemed, even with the Force binding us together—_

_< But even seeing you and Tahl, I . . . It was as if the Force kept flinging back to me all of the emotions I sought so desperately to release unto it, that my mind and heart were clear . . . I knew I loved you long ago . . . Fourteen, perhaps . . . when I could look back dispassionately at what happened with Cerasi and know that if Bant called it love it was not . . . that kind of love . . . novel, yes, forbidden and alluring as the cause of the Young . . . but you . . ._

_< My body knew. My heart. My mind. I lived for years in abject terror that I might say something in my sleep (for longing loosed itself in dreams) or that the truth would slip between us and you’d _know _._

_< And now dreams are all I have . . ._

_< I love you. I will always . . ._

_< And I will bury this within me; I will hold it close; I . . . must . . . be clear and steady now . . . the boy . . . I think of how long it took us to grow to know and trust each other and seeing this boy capture your heart and your hopes so quickly—_

_< Master . . . forgive me . . . my love, my anger, my longing . . . these are not the thoughts of a Jedi . . . And if I do not feel like one, then I must _become _._

 _<. . . But Anakin _will _become a Jedi . . . that I promise . . . >_

* * *

At last he lifts his head. Nothing, it seems, has changed. The room is cold. The ship still thrums an abstract dirge. Everything within him aches and, yes, something has been lost on Naboo—something that can never be released or made peace with because it was wrenched away in the rushing whine of a bloodred blade.

But something _has_ changed.

He does not know quite what, and realizes that the not-knowing is perhaps the most important part. With time it will become—as will he, himself.

Tenderly he places a kiss against his Master’s brow, then toggles the stasis field to life.

Wrapping Qui-Gon’s robe around his stiff-limbed frame, Obi-Wan turns for the door, casting no glance back. The future is ahead of him, and if he has lost some part of himself on Naboo, he will relinquish the rest of it when the ceremonial flames consume his Master’s body. With the sparks and the smoke he will let go of his anger, frustration, and fear, for his calling now is to the Light. He will never, perhaps, be able to shake the ashes from his mind, nor will he forget the scent of singed flesh or be able to unhear the sharp intake of breath—not quite a cry—that had been the hand of Death. No. These things he will carry, always, and he knows they will come to him in the darkness.

But even in the darkness, there is light, and as he reaches the threshold and the door hums wide and he begins a roving search for Anakin—to make amends—he knows he leaves the room not as a Padawan, but a Jedi . . . And in his heart and at his side, if he were to glance quickly enough (but of course he never will), Obi-Wan is sure that he can still see his Master’s face, can catch the trace of a smile meant only for him, can feel his broad, warm hand upon his shoulder—

And he will not be alone.


End file.
